Tag Archives: regrets

A Dirge for the Left Wing

So we’ve inaugurated him
the Jingo Kid, ol’ Cocaine Slim
to serve again as our great chief.

Despite the obvious belief
of many folks that he’s the spawn
of Satan. Soon he will be gone,
and who will fill his king-sized shoes?

That we’re in sad shape is no news,
and four years hence things will be worse
fed evil pap from this wet nurse.

I wonder, though, if just for spite
the constant scheming God-filled right
won’t train a Democrat or two
to follow on the Shrub, Part Deux;
and hoist some harmless seeming Left
upon a nation, now bereft,
its sense of truth and honor gone,
its holy cause, freedom, a pawn
used as a ploy to sell your way
on next inauguration day.

I’ll end with this, and make it brief:
next time you pick our chosen chief
be sure to check at your hairline
for three tattooed inverted nines.

22 JAN 2005

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If I Were, When I Was, What I Am

If I were still a drinking man,
I’d say I need a shot;
but as my self-made realm is dry
I think I’d better not.

If I were still procuring weed,
I’d want to roll a joint;
but all I’ve left is seeds and stems —
I think you get the point.

If I were still alone and free,
I’d probably point my car
with nowhere as my destination;
but now I’d not get far.

If I had those proclivities
that helped me through my youth,
I’d more than likely make a mess
of things, to tell the truth.

Instead, I’ll sit and meditate,
reflecting on a week
that seemed to drag on endlessly
and sap my strength to speak.

Then in the morning, when I wake
I’ll not be worse for wear;
and be more glad for nothing planned
and money saved. So there.

If I were still the man I was,
I’d see myself, and laugh.
But then again, I’d rather be
a joke than epitaph.

21 JAN 2005

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The Divorce

Just leave me here, would you?
We all die alone.
There’s no one to call
and no movies been shown.

It’s all sentimental,
that crap, anyway;
so just leave me here
and move away.

Just leave me here, would you;
and go live your life?
There’s not much adventure
in being my wife.

It’s all just tradition,
that stuff, anyway;
so go on
and be on your way.

Don’t bother with crying
or clutching your hands.
Just trust in your God
while he laughs at your plans,

and teaches you lessons
you don’t understand
that make you a woman or man;
and survive it the best that you can.

Just leave me here, would you?
No sense we both crack.
Pack up all your memories
and please, don’t look back.

It’s all sentimental,
that crap, anyway;
so just drive off
and I’ll be OK.

Just leave me here, would you?
Don’t bother to call
and I won’t leave the light on
for you in the hall.

It’s all a tradition,
that stuff, anyway;
go on, leave me
and just move away.

Don’t bother with weeping
or wringing your hands.
Just trust in your God,
that its part of His plan,

and remember you’ll never
full well understand
just what makes you a woman or man.
Start over, as long as you can.

1998

I’ve only written one song that reminds me of how much I owe to John Prine, as a songwriter. And it’s not really just his style alone — there’s a little Tom T. Hall thrown in for good measure, as well. This is another song from the Undertown Cycle (Frequent Reader, you will recall that’s my attempt at Springsteen’s Nebraska. Written, perhaps poignantly, shortly after my own divorce became final, this is one half of the picture.

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Concerning Past and Present Loves

Concerning K. I cannot say it came as much surprise
There always was a kind of fuzz that lingered in her eyes
And anyway, the games you play get serious enough
Without the threat of psychopathy breaking all your stuff

Concerning E. it seems to me our ages were all wrong
We didn’t grow up with the same books or sing the same songs
And furthermore, her mom got sore that I was more secure
Than her strange fundamentalist preacher man could endure

Concerning M., I won’t condemn the daydreams of the past
But it was never meant to be, and never meant to last
And in end, I won’t pretend that dream died slow and hard
But there was no room for me then or now on her dance card

Concerning V. I won’t deceive you, that was a mistake
She wanted oatmeal safety and I gave her nut and flake
And when it stopped and she just dropped me, it was for the best
There wasn’t any way I could have sat through the whole test

Concerning J. I went away before something could gel
But we were shooting in the dark, as far as I could tell
And so to speak, as different freaks our paths would never meet
Except at the rain-soaked crosswalk of some Seattle street

Concerning G., and M., and R., and maybe J., and C.
There were some magic moments, but they’re all now history
In retrospect, if I neglect to mention you by name
It’s not that you are unimportant; just say I’m to blame

Concerning S., now, more or less, there is so much to say
I wouldn’t trade what I have lost for what I have today
And truth be told, now getting old seems less a cross to bear
Because a life worth living is a life you want to share

21 JUN 2004

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Chandelier’s Left Wink and Blinding

Ceiling now in staring anguish,
once the eyes I found and lost;
last few moments, caught myself
and wound my winding sheet about it.

Words are not the thing for speaking:
truth, in little hardened bitters,
shows itself as one with hopeless
causes, self-aversion dramas,
Lysistratic coffee conscience.

Why when said it natural felt
the need to press and fold?
Enfolded leipedoptera means
no beauty, pins and needles.

I hate this feeling, wanting
knowing nothing offered is worth taking; yet
submittal, anything for just two fleeting
words, both of contradiction.

Given it is gone, and yet while nothing
hurts its purpose, still expect
you’ll never see what pain is
in the place where you are not.

1993

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An April Morning: anglo-saxon prosody with a bob and wheel

The sky was shot with grays and greens,
and clinging clouds that hung low;
from the west, the wind was slight
against my face that April night
     when first
     I found I’d lost my way;
     and more, what’s worse,
     with nothing left to say:
     a writer’s sad curse.

I stood in silence, stunned and mute
and watched the world continue on;
Despite my dumbness, nothing changed
in how life lumbers slowly on
      and stops
      for no one, rich or poor;
      both thieves and cops
      react, and nothing more,
      as each moment drops.

For quite a while, I watched and waited,
’til the lights lowered and dawn was near,
as the darkened earth began to glow
with the soft shimmer of newborn day
      and awoke
      stretching its tired limbs,
      the spell of gloom broken
      by a small bird’s hymn.
      And only then, I spoke.

06 APR 2004

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